


streicher oneshots

by alfred_rosenberg



Category: Third Reich - Fandom
Genre: i've given up trying to tag everything in this just know that most of it is nasty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-10-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 8,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alfred_rosenberg/pseuds/alfred_rosenberg
Summary: what it says on the tin.  oneshots of you and streicher.
Relationships: Julius Streicher/Reader
Comments: 5
Kudos: 10





	1. 1

Streicher is mean. But you like it. You like it, and you’re aware that he knows that. You can see it in the way he approaches you now, slowly and deliberately. You can’t tell if he’s going to hit you or not, and the excitement of it all makes you shake.

Streicher smiles, and when he gets up to you, he raises his hand. You instinctively flinch, turning your head to the side, preparing for the blunt force of his palm hitting you, but he only brings his hand to your cheek, running it down your jawline. His fingers are hot against the smooth skin of your face, and you groan inwardly, avoiding looking into his eyes out of a sense of shame and embarrassment.

But you don’t hide your feelings very well. “Did you think I was going to hit you?” he says, his voice tinged with amusement, low and rough. 

“Yes,” you respond honestly, because he likes it that way. He likes it when you’re scared, he likes making you feel like a deer staring down the barrel of a hunter’s gun, and you don’t even have to look to know that you flinching made him get hard. 

“Get on your knees,” he orders. His voice is calm, but there’s a layer of tension beneath it that suggests that you’ll regret it if you don’t. You obey, and the wooden floor is cold and hard beneath your legs, but you don’t dare to shift to a more comfortable position. 

You hear a metallic click above you, and you know what it is from just the sound. It’s Streicher’s revolver, the one he carried during the war. You’re sure it’s loaded, too— he isn’t the type of man to take chances, especially with things like that.

He sits in front of you and puts his hand on your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You freeze at the sight of the gun in his hand, shining in the dim light of the room, and Streicher grins at your fear. He loves it when you’re like this, trembling in fear and anticipation of what he’s going to do to you, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like it too. 

“Open your mouth,” he says, and you do. He slides the barrel of the revolver into your mouth and it’s cold and oily, and you’re hyperaware of the fact that it’s loaded and at any second Streicher could shoot you through the back of your head. But rather than being scared by the whole thing, you moan around the barrel of the gun, its solid weight on your tongue. Streicher’s heavy jackboot finds its way in between your legs and rocks back and forth, making your thighs shake. 

He stops suddenly, pulling the gun out of your mouth. Your spit leaves a trail from the barrel to your tongue and you lick your dry lips, leaning forwards on your knees as he unbuckles his pants. “If you don’t do it good,” he says simply, “I’ll blow a hole in your head.” His voice is hoarse now, and you make a noise in the back of your throat.

Against your better judgement, you protest, albeit weakly. “Do you have to—“ you start, but then Streicher slaps you across the face. It’s hard enough to leave a mark, but the pain feels good on your cheek, the sharp sting bringing you back to your senses.

He grabs your hair roughly and shoves your face towards him, and you oblige, taking his cock into your mouth. He presses the barrel of the gun to your temple, and you feel it there, cold again, Streicher’s threat hanging in your mind. He would do it, too, you know that, and so you begin to bob your head up and down, feeling extraordinarily aware of every movement that you make. The floor hurts your knees badly now, but somehow that just makes it better.

Streicher keeps making noises in the back of his throat, which, along with being very hot, tells you that you must be doing something right. He presses the revolver harder into your temple, digging it into your skin, and for a moment you think he might actually pull the trigger, making you moan around him in your mouth. 

But he doesn’t, and he grunts something that sounds like your name out before he cums in your mouth. You swallow it and pull away, and he lets the gun drop from your head. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiles. “I didn’t actually end up shooting you.” You’re still panting, but you smile back. Streicher could be mean, but you liked it, after all.


	2. 2

The wooden floor is cold and hard beneath your knees again as you sit in front of Streicher. The dimly lit room where you two do these things is the same as always, down to the way you can feel the bruises forming where your bare skin is exposed to the floor. It isn’t the most dignified of positions, but with him, you can’t expect anything less.

Streicher is still wearing his uniform, armband and all, and his hand lands on the back of your head and forces you down to his jackboot. Your face is so close to it that it’s almost touching you, and it smells like the polish he uses and dust from some Franconian road. “Do a good job for me,” he orders, his voice rough and low, and you tentatively lean forwards and kiss the toe of it before running your tongue up from there up to where his leg starts. 

It doesn’t taste bad, but it also doesn’t taste good, either, and your instincts make you try to pull away from the harsh scent of the polish and the faint taste of dirt. Streicher, of course, won’t allow that, and he grabs your hair with his hand and forces you back down, hard. “Do it better, whore,” he says. There’s a distinct tone of distaste in his voice that sends a bolt of arousal down your spine. 

You know you can do it better too, so you make a noise in the back of your throat against his boot and obligingly resume your task. The leather is smooth and slick and cool under your tongue, and his hand gripping your hair and forcing your face down onto it only makes it better. 

He doesn’t tell you to stop, so you lick all the way up to the end of his boot, where it almost reaches his knee. You’re over-salivating from the odd new texture of it, and spit spills from your mouth onto the dark leather. You don’t even have to look up to know that Streicher is pleased to watch you act like this for him. 

You run your tongue over the edge of it where it meets his pants. It makes you feel pathetic to be like this, on your knees licking Streicher’s boots, but it’s also hot being in such a vulnerable position in front of him, and the more you think about that, the more turned on you get. You pull away, panting through your mouth, feeling like you’re in a daze.

When your eyes focus, you’re level with his crotch, and you realize that he’s gotten hard from seeing you literally drooling over him like that. His hand still rests on the back of your head, and he jerks you forwards, pushing your face into it. You yelp, protesting against the sudden force, but Streicher just grunts and holds you there.

Your fingers fumble with his belt buckle, the cold metal clinking in your hands, and you finally manage to undo it. It must be almost amusing for him to see how overexcited you always get when it comes to this part, how desperate you are to please him no matter what he does to you. Streicher swats your hands away and unbuckles his pants himself to save time. Your mouth feels rather dry now, and you run your tongue over your lips, tasting the faint traces of his jackboot on them.

You take his cock in your mouth, and you widen your jaw as much as possible before bobbing your head up and down. Streicher’s eyes slip shut and his boot finds its way between your legs now, and he presses down, making your thighs shake from the sudden pleasure. Your jaw aches very much after a minute, but you don’t dare to stop, and the pain (although it feels good) and the feeling from Streicher’s jackboot in between your legs makes you start to tear up, something you know he definitely enjoys seeing.

You moan around him in your throat, and he curses roughly under his breath and jerks his hips up, cumming into your mouth. You swallow it and lean back, flushed and with tears still in your eyes. Streicher raises his hand, and for a split second you think he’s about to hit you, but instead he caresses your cheek with the uncharacteristic gentleness he sometimes has. “You did a good job,” he praises you, and you smile. That’s all you can hope for, after all.


	3. 3

“Bring it to me,” Streicher says. You know what he wants you to do, so you take the whip in your mouth and crawl on your hands and knees to him. He looks at you with no expression on his face, as if this is no different from his dog bringing him a stick. And maybe that’s really how he sees this. 

The whip is solid and hard between your teeth, and when you reach him he takes it out of your mouth. “Sit pretty for me,” he says, and you lean back and place your hands in front of you neatly, looking up at him. You really do feel like an obedient dog in front of Streicher now, but the feeling isn’t unpleasant; in fact, you like it a lot. He gently traces your cheekbone with the whip. The leather is cool against your flushed skin, and you wonder if he’s going to hit your face with it. He would, you know that, and he’d smile at you as you fall to the ground from the pain and maybe then he’d put his boot on your face if he was feeling generous— 

But he doesn’t. Instead he grabs your chin and forces your jaw open, pressing his rough fingers into your soft skin so hard it hurts, and he spits in your mouth. You make a choked sound, unable to move from his hand gripping your face, and you feel his saliva running down your tongue and swallow it. 

“Good girl,” he says, letting go and running his fingers over your cheek. “Turn around.” You know what’s going to happen now and you shudder from a heady mixture of anticipation and fear, shifting around on the floor slowly. Streicher puts his jackboot on your back and shoves you down onto your hands and knees again suddenly, almost making you lose your balance. 

You tell yourself that you won’t cry this time, although you always do. Streicher enjoys seeing the way your pretty little face gets streaked with tears from what he does (or doesn’t) do and the way you whimper while you’re sobbing, and he always knows exactly how to make you lose control of yourself like that. But you won’t do that this time, you tell yourself, although you already know that’s a lie, because you can feel the way he’s looking at you right now. 

And then he hits you. The pain is immediate, sharp and stinging on your back, and you can feel that it made a welt. You choke back something between a moan and a “stop”, but the pain is good, too, the way it makes you feel like your skin is on fire, and some deep contrarian part of yourself enjoys it.

It takes about eight more hits for you to start tearing up. Streicher delivers each one with the same almost-brutal force, and you flinch every time. He isn’t gentle in any sense of the word, and he grunts at the sharp sound of the whip hitting your skin. The tears in your eyes burn and blur your vision and the lump in your throat hurts almost as much as your back, but you tell yourself again that this time you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you cry because of him, you won’t— 

“I’m not going to stop until you cry for me,” Streicher says. There’s a hint of enjoyment in his voice, probably because he knows you can’t hold out for much longer. “You always cry when I do this to you. Do you really like it that much? Are you that much of a worthless little whore that you’d let me whip you until you cry?” You can’t see his face, but you’re sure he’s looking down at you with distaste.

And then he hits you again, and it’s harder this time, and it hurts so good that you can’t hold it back anymore. You feel your tears running down your cheeks and let out a half-muffled sob, dropping your head down. “Yes, sir, I am,” you answer, your voice strained and raw, because you know you really are a worthless whore, and even though you might deny it you do like Streicher hitting you until you cry.

He gives you one last hit for good measure and then stops, running his hand up your back to feel the marks he made. The salt from his fingers makes them sting even more and you make a noise when his hand brushes over them, tracing their patterns up your flesh. You can’t seem to stop crying from the pain and the humiliation of being so pathetic, and you sniffle miserably on your knees in front of Streicher. But you like it, that’s the thing, and you both know that. 

He runs his fingers through your hair, patting your head gently. “You’re a good girl,” he says with a smile, and you wipe at the wetness on your face with your hands, blushing in spite of yourself. He runs his thumb over your cheek, smudging the remaining tears over your face. Your back still stings and you know it’ll hurt for the next few days, but Streicher is proud of you, and that’s worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's no set up at all for this one but whatever.


	4. 4

“People will see us here!” you protest. There’s houses across the little green field you two are in, and you struggle against Streicher’s grip on your arms, strong and unyielding as he holds down on your delicate wrist bones.

He growls and shoves you away from him. You lose your balance and topple onto the ground, and Streicher’s hand is on your neck before you can say anything more, forcing your head back into the grass and pressing down on your windpipe. You grab at it weakly, but you can’t stop him as he hikes your skirt up your legs and pulls your underwear down. “Shut up,” he orders, and you do, petrified of the people in the quiet village looking over and seeing you like this.

He unceremoniously unzips his pants and slides his cock into you, and you make a noise, your throat vibrating under his hand. When he’s sure you won’t try to crawl away from him, he grabs onto your hips and thrusts into you hard and fast. You desperately try to be quiet, to not attract attention, but it feels so _good_. You wish you could bite down on your hand to stop yourself from moaning, but he’ll get mad if you do that, so you try to choke back your reactions.

“What do you think they would say if they saw you like this?” Streicher asks. His breaths are ragged as he pounds into you. “If they saw me fucking you like this?” You open your mouth to respond, but he slaps you across the face, hard, and as your mouth snaps shut you bite down on your tongue, drawing blood, and you whimper pathetically. "They'd say that you're such a little slut that you'd let me fuck you out in the open like this, wouldn't they?"

You feel your orgasm coming on and you know you won’t be able to keep quiet, a sense of panic filling you. But just as you reach that point, Streicher leans down and kisses you, his tongue tasting the blood from his hit that swirls around your teeth and mixes with your spit. That sends you over the edge and you cum hard, clenching down on his cock inside of you and moaning his name into his mouth. He grunts and thrusts one more time before finishing inside of you.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he asks, smiling as he pulls out of you. “No one saw us.” 

“Yes,” you answer, standing up and pulling your clothing back together. Your legs are shaking and your back hurts from being forced onto the ground and your hips have Streicher’s fingerprints bruised onto them now and you stumble around, still riding the high of your orgasm. He always makes you feel like this, powerless and helpless under him, but you love it.


	5. 5

It’s kind of a disgusting thought to you. The plate of cherries in front of you is covered in Streicher’s cum, and you have a sinking feeling that you know what he’s going to make you do with it.

You don’t want to. _It’s gross_ , you think to yourself. _It’s gross, and I don’t… I don’t…_

“Open your mouth,” Streicher orders. You can’t seem to make yourself do that, and there’s a look of abject reluctance on your face. “Why don’t you want to eat it?”

“Because… because…” you stutter, aware that you can’t give a good enough reason to him to stop doing this. You never can.

“Why? Come on, say it,” he cajoles. “Is it because it’s disgusting to you? Is it because you think it’ll be bad?” You do, so you nod miserably. “How is this any different than me cumming in your mouth when I fuck your throat?” It isn’t any different, you suppose, and you look down at your hands in your lap out of shame.

“It’s not different,” you admit, embarrassed. He smiles and runs his hand over the top of your head.

“Listen to me. I want you to eat all of these. Every single one,” he says. You start to shake your head, because it’s still gross to you despite what he said, the concept of eating food he cummed on is gross, you don’t want to, but he grabs your face with his hand and forces your mouth open. There’s still that good-natured smile on his face, because he knows you’ll do it. You can’t refuse, because you’re his, and you’ll do whatever he tells you to do.

Streicher picks one of them up and shoves it into your mouth. It’s heavy on your tongue and you try to pull away but he won’t let you, and he holds your face firmly and watches you struggle. You finally cave in and bite down on it. The cherry itself is sweet, but Streicher’s cum is salty, and the two flavors mix in your mouth in an odd way. It’s not pleasant like sea salt and caramel, it’s worse, and the juiciness of the fruit and the sort of sticky slick texture of the cum adds to it. But you still chew it and swallow it, forcing it down your throat.

Streicher puts another one in your mouth. And another. It’s not bad, you tell yourself, it isn’t, maybe it’s actually kind of good, because it isn’t any different than him cumming in your mouth and you like when he does that, don’t you? You know you do, so you dutifully eat the cherries like the good girl you are and try to focus on the way Streicher looks down at you, like he’s feeding his dog a treat.

You lose track of how many you actually eat, but eventually the plate is clean and you sit there feeling dirty in a way you can’t describe, the aftertaste of it in your mouth lingering in a way that isn’t totally unpleasant. He puts his hand on your cheek and kisses you, his tongue swiping the inside of your teeth to taste it out of curiosity.

“Say thank you to me for letting you do that,” Streicher says once he breaks away from you.

You can’t bring yourself to look into his eyes. “Thank you.” Your voice is quiet, a sort of shame for nothing specific hitting you.

“Thank you for what?”

“Thank you for… for letting me eat your cum,” you say, dropping your head down, feeling like you might cry, and you realize what he already knew, that you’re so submissive for him that you’d do anything he told you, and that it’s too late to change that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can't believe this concept started off as a joke.


	6. 6

“Hold out your hand,” Streicher orders, and you do. He takes it, holding it gently in his palm. “Do you want to know what I’m going to do to you now?” His voice is soft and gentle as he talks to you, as if there’s nothing bad he wants to do to you.

You don’t, but you nod obediently. “I’m going to take your pretty little finger and break it.” You freeze, your body going rigid. “I’m going to take it and snap it just like that. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He runs his finger over your index finger lightly and you wish desperately that you could pull away but you can’t, you’re frozen in place because you know if you run he’ll do much worse to you than just break a finger, so you stay there and wait and hope he’ll be nice. 

He grabs your finger and bends it backwards until it snaps. It’s so quick that you don’t fully comprehend what’s going on until the pain hits you and you gasp and your body recoils, but Streicher still holds onto your hand tightly, pressing down on the broken bone. Your finger is horribly bent out of shape at an odd angle and tears come into your eyes and you can’t even hold them back this time. 

“Doesn’t that feel nice?” he asks. You don’t reply. You let Streicher break your finger, you know that, and he lets go and you let it dangle limply at your side. Maybe it does really feel nice under the shock and pain, but you don’t know either way.


	7. 7

Streicher is in front of you, smoking, and you idly watch the way his hands look, the way he holds the cigarette so lightly and gently in between his fingers.

“Come here,” he says, and you blink as you wonder what he wants. He places his hand on the back of your head and jerks your neck forwards, tilting your face up at him. Your eyes land on the cigarette dangling from his other hand and you realize in the back of your mind what he wants to do. It’s not a nice thing, and your throat constricts as you think about it. 

He takes the cigarette in his fingers and looks over your face, deciding where he should put it. You shift uncomfortably and wish you could run away, but you can’t. You never can, and even if you could you don’t think you would.

He decides on your cheekbone and presses the lit end into your skin. It hurts, burning the little circular area under it, and you have to pinch your arm to stop yourself from flinching away and bite down on your lip so hard you almost break the skin. You sit there and take the pain as you feel Streicher’s cigarette go out, marking your face. He pulls it away and you want to reach up and touch the burn but you don’t, and instead you feel the way it stings hotly and sharply, reminding you of the way it felt when you touched the stove as a child.

To your dismay, he lights another one. He doesn’t even take a drag, he just shoves the end on your face again, closer to your eye this time. It feels worse than the other one this time, and you choke back a noise of pain and wait for him to pull it away. The smell of cigarette smoke so close to your face is overpowering, and the intensity of it makes you want to gag. 

When he lights another one you shake your head. He’s only put two out on your skin, which you know isn't that many, but it hurts and you don’t want any more because it’ll mark your face too much and then people will know. And what will they say? That you let Streicher burn your face with cigarettes? That you must like being treated like trash?

“What’s wrong?” he asks. “Does it hurt?” It does very much, so you nod. “But you like it, don’t you?” You can’t possibly say no to him, but if you say yes, he’ll do it more, and you’re filled with a sort of hopelessness at your situation. 

“Yes,” you say, your voice strained, and he smiles and presses the cigarettes to your face again. And again. And again. And again. He spreads them out over your face so it’s obvious what happened to you, so that everyone can know that you let him do this to you because you like it, you like it when he burns you with cigarettes. You let him do it because he knows what’s best for you, and he knows that you deserve this. 

By this point you’re crying, from both the pain and your total powerlessness, and the tears make the burns on your face sting worse. “Do you want me to do it more?” Streicher asks, and you have to say yes again, even though you don’t, even though you think that this is certainly enough and it feels like your entire face hurts. You can't say no because he won't let you say no, because he knows you secretly like everything he does to you, even if it hurts this much, because you're his good little pet who he can do anything to.

“Yes,” you choke out, clenching your fists in your lap. But he doesn’t light another one this time. He runs his hand over the top of your head, petting you, and you faintly hear him say something that sounds like “good girl” through your misery. You give up and fall forwards, pressing your face into his shirt in an attempt to make yourself feel better as well as hide your crying. The rough fabric only makes your face hurt more, but his arm wraps around you, holding you there, and you don’t try to get away. You never will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't even know if he actually smoked lmaooo


	8. 8

Streicher is hardly a model prisoner. He isn’t exactly uncooperative, but he fights every step of the way. His offhand remarks about everyone at the Trial are annoying, and you roll your eyes every time, often wondering why you had the bad luck to be assigned to being his guard. 

There is _something_ about him, though. Maybe it’s the way he’s so confident in himself while so many of his fellow defendants are quiet and meek. You don’t know, and quite frankly you don’t even want to know. It’s made you start doing little things like slip him chocolate after dinner or take a letter to his wife, and in return he’s stopped looking at you with that scorn he treats everyone else at Nuremberg with. He never says thank you, but there’s a sense of benevolence towards you that you appreciate, even if it does come from a man like him. 

After bringing him back to his cell one night, you turn to go and lock the door as usual. “Wait,” he says. “Stay a while.” You shouldn’t, it’s against prison guidelines, but he smiles at you and you can’t say no. You sigh and shut the door, locking it from the inside, and hope that no one notices.

He motions for you to sit down on the bed and you do, shifting awkwardly on the thin blankets and feeling out of place. Streicher sits at his table across from you. His cell is messy and disorganized, papers and letters strewn around in various places. It’s the same as always, the dim evening light shining through the bars on the small window.

“Let me ask you something,” he says, and you nod. “You like me, don’t you?” It’s more of a statement than a question, and your immediate urge is to say no, you don’t, but you’re sure the way you laugh in spite of yourself when he makes a crude joke and the way you make sure to always say goodnight to him in the evenings proves otherwise. 

“Yes, I do,” you admit, feeling embarrassed to be saying it. It’s a shameful feeling to you, because you know you should hate him. He looks at you as you say that, and a ghost of a smile flickers across his face. There’s an odd expression in his eyes that makes you think of the fact that the defendants haven’t had contact with any women in months. It's not entirely unpleasant to you. 

He stands and moves in front of you without saying anything more, and you realize what he wants and shake your head, bracing yourself to leave. It’s not that you don’t _want_ to, it’s that if anyone finds out you did this with Julius Streicher, you’ll have a much-diminished social reputation and no job. "I can't," you say, "I can't do this." It's more you convincing yourself than you convincing him, and you're sure he knows that. 

“You like me, though, right?” he says again. His hand reaches out and lands on your thigh, staying there. You can feel the way his fingers gently indent your skin, and his body heat seeps through your pant leg. “Because I like you.” His voice is sort of low and hoarse, and you feel a twinge somewhere inside of you. You know you shouldn’t, because it’s wrong, because this man is being charged with crimes against humanity, but the feeling of his hand on your leg is _nice_ , although you wish it wasn’t. There's not enough willpower in you to get up and leave, and you look up at him, feeling slightly lost and helpless.

Streicher closes the rest of the gap between both of you, kissing you. Any remaining hesitation in you fades away at that. It’s not exactly passionate and loving and he isn’t gentle in any sense of the word, but you didn’t expect a man like him to be, and so when he pushes (or shoves, depending on what your definition of a push is) you back onto the cell bed you don’t mind. He kisses you again, his mouth hard and firm on your more pliant and soft one, and there’s something oddly needy about it that you suppose comes from being alone for so long. It makes you feel bad for some reason, so you run your hands up his back gently.

There’s a noise out in the prison hall, and you freeze, holding your breath and tensing up as you hear voices outside. Streicher doesn’t seem alarmed, and he slips his hands up under your shirt. They’re rough and warm against the soft skin of your stomach and it makes you wonder how they’d feel in other places. That thought is enough to bring your mind back to your situation inside the prison cell and you focus on the feeling of having Streicher above you and the way his fingers idly trace around, the little motions going almost down to the line of your pants but not far enough.

“We can do this quickly,” he says, and you nod again. You’ll have to do it quickly, because you both know someone will eventually notice that you haven’t come out of his cell yet.

Streicher runs his hands down your sides to your hips, tugging your pants down to your knees. It’s embarrassing for a lot of reasons, but he’s going so fast that you don’t have time to really think about it. His hands slips up between your legs, spreading them almost obscenely wide, and you feel yourself flush and let your head drop to the side, so you don’t have to see the way he’s looking down at you.

He fumbles with his pants for a moment before angling your legs up towards him. There’s a heady mixture of anticipation and fear in your mind as he slips his cock into you, and you clench down on him from the feeling. His eyes slip shut and he makes a noise through his gritted teeth, grabbing onto your hips to pull you further down onto him, making you inhale sharply and bite down on your lip to keep from moaning. It hurts, but in a good way, and when he thrusts into you it makes you grip the rough blankets on his cell bed, twisting them between your fingers. 

It's going better than you expected, you think, but then you feel his hand close down around your throat. It sends a bolt of alarm through your mind, but you can’t pull away, and if you make more noise you’ll be heard. You look up at him, and there's a self-satisfied look on face as he sees your expression of almost-panic. Streicher is doing this because he likes it, you realize, because he wants you to feel like this, powerless and weak underneath him. He presses down lightly at first, almost gently, but you think of the way you’ve heard people claim he’s a sadist. You had dismissed it as nonsense (Streicher is mean and rude, sure, but still), but the way his fingers dig into your skin now as if he doesn’t care that something bad could happen to you makes you realize that it’s true, and that you should’ve listened when you heard that he carried a whip around with him everywhere in Franconia. Maybe you regret thinking that letting Streicher fuck you is a good idea now, but it’s much too late to change your mind, and he knows it.

You make a noise to try to tell him to stop, or to tell him to be gentler, but you can’t get any words out either way, and your hand weakly reaches up and grips his wrist as if he’ll even care. You can’t pull it off, though, and the lack of oxygen in you combined with Streicher fucking you is oddly pleasant, slipping your mind into a hazy euphoria and making stars appear behind your eyes. He must love seeing you like this, the way your eyes flutter shut and the way your thin throat twitches under his hand, as if you’re a little lamb under a wolf. And maybe you really are, because you certainly ignored all common sense, and look where you ended up. He must find a special kind of enjoyment in the fact that he's managed to get his guard under his control like this, and you can tell from the way he keeps thrusting into you and the way he grips onto your side with his other hand to steady you so hard that you can feel bruises forming, dark blue and purple blotches in the pattern of his fingertips. You can't think about any of that right now, though, because it feels _good_ , so good you can't seem to have any coherent thoughts. 

You don't know how much time passes, but eventually you cum, and the lightheadedness just intensifies the feeling. Your mind blanks and you momentarily forget where you are, and even your name seems distant and far away, somewhere else entirely. The only thing you can think of is the feeling of Streicher inside of you and his hand on your throat. He keeps fucking you, rocking your body back on the prison cot, and all you can do is whine helplessly under him, as if you're begging him for something. You hear him make a sound, something like a quiet curse, maybe, and then he cums too, not bothering to pull his cock out of you beforehand. His hand leaves your neck, finally, and he moves away from you after a moment. 

You cough and sit up, rubbing your throat where his hand was. There’s definitely a mark there now, and it’s probably bright red and it might bruise from his fingertips digging into your skin. It’ll certainly be hard to explain, but you’re still dizzy right now and so you don’t think about any of that as you redress yourself.

Stumbling to the door, you wince at the soreness that’s already in your legs. Streicher is sitting at his desk again, and when you turn to look at him, he’s smiling. Whether it’s because of what you two just did or because of the fact that he was able to get you to do it at all, you don’t know, but does it even matter? It doesn't, and you walk out of his cell feeling ashamed and dirty and satisfied all at once. It's a strange feeling, and once again you wonder why you had the bad luck to be assigned to be his guard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me trying to finish writing this after a week of procrastinating: what would you do if when you okay so he said yes would go?


	9. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> part 2 to the finger-breaking fic based on a convo i had like 2 months ago lol. if you remember it shoutout to you

You’re stopped crying, mostly, except for little pathetic sniffs here and there, and your tears are drying uncomfortably on your face. The sharp pain of your broken finger has subsided into a dull and ragged ache, and your injured hand lies limply at your side.

“Come on,” Streicher cajoles gently from in front of you. “You can do it, can’t you?”

You don’t think you can, but Streicher does, he wants you to, in fact, and that overrules any reason to stop that you might have. Nodding against your will, you reach out, trying not to move your broken finger too much, and you wrap your hand around his cock gingerly. 

“Why aren’t you using all of your fingers?” he asks, obviously displeased that you’re trying not to use the one he broke. “Do I have to snap another one?” 

“No,” you say hurriedly, your voice hoarse and raw, “no, I can do it, I promise,” because you don’t think you can take that again (but can you even do _this_?), and so you bite down on your lip and bend your broken finger too. It hurts badly again, the sharp pain coming back and almost making you feel nauseous. You hope you don’t gag. 

It’ll be best to finish this as soon as possible, because at some point you know you’ll completely be unable to do this. _It’s just a broken finger_ , you tell yourself, as if that's a comforting thing to say, but it’s really so much more than that; it’s a mark of Streicher’s authority and power over you in its purest form. If he can just bend your finger backwards like that, easily and without you protesting, until it breaks, there’s a myriad of other things he can do, things equally as painful and humiliating but also somehow darkly exciting to you. But this pain is more than enough for right now, almost more than you can stand, and you begin to move your hand and wrist up and down, jerking him off. 

It hurts as much as you expected, probably more than that, and it takes a conscious effort for you to not pull your hand away. You’re biting your lip so hard that you can feel your teeth break the skin in an attempt to distract yourself from the pain of your hand, the metallic taste of your own blood running onto your tongue, and after a moment you begin to cry again, against your own will, your tears falling onto your lap. Streicher watches you, and he likes the fact that you’re crying almost as much as your hand around his cock. 

A whimper slips out of your mouth and you focus on mechanically moving your hand, not really trying to do anything else than getting him off; you’ve given up on trying to minimize your pain. Streicher is hard and hot under your hand, and when he mutters “just like that” in approval you don’t know if it’s because of you jerking him off or your reaction to the pain he’s caused you or both. 

“Please,” you whine, “can I please use my mouth?” You know you shouldn’t ask, but it _hurts_ , too much for you to even think straight, but you know there's no way he'll say yes.

“No,” he says, a sickening tone of amusement in his voice. “If you can’t use your fingers well, I’ll break the rest of them. You don’t need them anyways if you can’t do this right.” That’s true, you know, and he’ll do that too because it’s what you deserve, and maybe he’ll do it slower this time, making you watch as he bends them back ever-so-slightly until they reach the breaking point and snap so you can feel every moment of it, and he’ll move them around, grating the bone against your nerves until you’re begging him to stop, but of course he won’t. He never does. 

Streicher grabs your wrist impatiently, forcing your hand up and down his cock in a quicker rhythm that you tearfully try to maintain, although you know he’s trying to make it hurt as much as possible. This feels like it’s been going on forever to you, but after a moment he grunts, cumming into your hand. You let go after a moment, bringing your hand unthinkingly to your face to lick it off. 

“I told you you could do it,” Streicher says, smiling, but your finger still hurts too much for you to do anything but hold it in your other hand and wish you weren't crying so much. 


	10. 10

It’s the Nuremberg Rally again, and of course Streicher has to attend. It’s an honor, he keeps reminding you, that Hitler allows it to be held in Franconia every year. You know that, and you certainly appreciate it (though probably not as much as he'd like you to). That also means that Streicher is always a prominent figure in it, something he obviously enjoys from the way he boasts about it to anyone who listens. But that doesn't annoy you; on the contrary, it's nice to see him so enthused and proud, and when he invites you to come along with him on the day that he's speaking at the rally you agree eagerly. 

It's crowded and slightly hectic there, but Streicher manages it well, greeting various Party officials and making conversation while you’re left to trail behind like a slightly neglected dog. But that's nothing new; he has no need for you in times like this, and you accept that, though he does glance back at you occasionally to make sure you're still there.

After a while Rosenberg gets up to speak, and you expect Streicher to stay and listen like everyone else is, but before the speech begins he turns and walks away and you follow without thinking, knowing that he wants you to. You want to ask what on earth he's doing, but you have enough basic common sense to not do that in front of a crowd, and he's going too fast for you to slow down and say it, so you hurriedly walk along behind him. Before long you’re away from the main crowd, and he turns behind some little building (really just a shed, if you're being honest), and you stop in front of him. "What are you doing?" you ask, wishing you didn't sound as confused as you do.

“I’m speaking in half an hour,” he says. You wonder what’s wrong— he isn’t the type of man to get nervous, though this _is_ important. But he gives speeches every week, doesn't he?

Your lack of understanding must show on your face and in the way you don't react, because he sighs and grabs your shoulders, pushing you against the wall. “Don’t be stupid,” Streicher says, somewhat contemptuously. “Why do you think I brought you here?” As your back collides with the wallyou realize, as he said, why he’s made you come here and you gulp, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. It’s not that you don’t _want_ to, but you only have thirty minutes, and doing this at the Nuremberg Rally of all places is very risky. Anyone could come and see you and him, and while Streicher's reputation isn't exactly spotless and you doubt anyone would truly be shocked to see him here, you still have your own social image to maintain— 

But that fact doesn’t really matter when he kisses you, pressing you back harder against the cool unyielding wall, and of course you give in, because what else are you supposed to do? And when he moves to nip at your jawline, your initial feelings of self-preservation melt away into wanting almost shamefully easily. This should be, you think, the point where you say “no”, because even Streicher must know it’s awfully precarious, but he’s pinning you flush against the wall and although you hate to admit it, you feel a jolt in your stomach when he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh. You twitch, your body responding to his fingertips out of instinct and probably against your own will, making you press closer against him, and you know that you can’t get out of this now. 

“Streicher,” you say, as if you can get him to change his mind, “Streicher,” as though he’s ever convinced when you or anyone else asks him to stop doing anything. It gives you the distinct feeling of being trapped, and though your gut instinct is telling you to stop this, there _is_ something about it that’s not awful.

But there's no conviction in your voice, nothing to make him stop and consider what he's about to do. “Shut up,” he says, “and help me out,” and before you can respond he hikes you up against the wall, pushing you against it to keep you up, and as he undoes his belt you also hastily take care of your clothing. This is going fast, even for him, but then again, you do only have thirty minutes. He spits into his palm, using his weight to hold you there, and when he shoves his cock into you it makes you grit your teeth. It’s not exactly the most romantic thing in the world, and it _is_ very sudden, but it’s not like you expected anything else from Streicher in the first place, and when he thrusts into you whatever pain you feel is quickly replaced by a much more pleasant sensation. You hate to admit that being fucked here, of all places, is _nice_ , but it is, and you inevitably relax slightly and simply hope that it'll be as quick as he said it would be.

When you hear voices from somewhere near, it takes you a moment to realize what it means, and when you do you freeze, tensing up and looking at Streicher with something like despair. Of course, he doesn’t stop. 

“Wouldn’t want them to see you like this, huh?” he asks, grinning, his voice slightly breathless. “Wouldn’t want them to see you getting fucked like a filthy little slut here, right?” You snap your open mouth shut, suddenly conscious of the fact that any amount of noise could attract attention, but Streicher isn’t making it easy; he thrusts into you harder, making you bite down on your lip and make a choked-back noise. You wish you could put your hand over your mouth to either muffle yourself or bite down on it, but you have to keep your arms around his shoulders to keep yourself up. Whoever is close to you isn’t going away, either; from the sound of their voices you can sense that they’re around the other side of the small building, and they laugh at something. You wish you knew what’s so funny about anything right now. 

“Please,” you whisper, “I can’t.” It’s a very vague thing to say, but Streicher, to his credit, understands, and he takes one of his hands off of your hips and claps it over your mouth. His palm is rough and hot against your lips and he presses it there almost too hard, but it works, and when he fucks into you now your moans are muffled back in your throat. 

After a moment, it’s easy to forget you’re doing this at the Nuremberg Rally, and you do, even the fear of being seen slipping your mind— at least for the time being. Streicher’s fingers are digging into your hip a little too hard, and being against a wall isn’t exactly the most comfortable position, especially with the way his hand on your mouth is pushing your head back against the hard surface, but the pain isn’t bad; on the contrary, although you know that he’s bruising you, you like it, even as your brain becomes muddled from the feeling of his cock inside of you. And when you cum a moment later, moaning something incoherent against his palm, Streicher doesn't slow down at all; if anything, he increases the pace of his hips, making you whine. But he's doing this for himself, after all, and you can't stop him, anyways.

He cums inside of you soon after, biting down on your shoulder hard enough that you’d yelp if his hand wasn’t firmly over your mouth, but any noise of protest you might make is silenced. After a moment he slides out of you and moves away, dropping you back to the ground without warning and wiping the spit on his palm off on you roughly. You would fall if you didn’t have the good sense to lean back against the wall to compensate for your unsteady legs while you’re fumbling with your clothing. 

“Well,” Streicher says, “I should be speaking in a few moments. You’ll watch me, right?” To be quite honest, you don’t even know if you can get yourself to walk all the way back to the rally right now, but he’s looking at you so expectantly and it’s such a strangely innocent question to ask after all of that, so of course you say yes. And you do manage to stumble your way back to the event, and when he takes the stage you politely applaud with all the others. He speaks well, very well, actually, and when the crowd salutes him when he finishes there's a contended smile on his face that convinces you that it was worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i haven't updated this in like 2 months my bad but i finished this while procrastinating on doing other things
> 
> anyway this was largely inspired by a particular sentence in a book about streicher that said he claimed "that he could never give a powerful speech to a mass meeting unless he had had sexual relations with a young woman", and while i've never heard that fact anywhere else than that one book i was like well i might as well write something about it. idk why it ended up having the most plot out of any of these oneshots though


End file.
